


Displaced

by magnuspr1m3



Series: Marvel Oneshots [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, M/M, Protective Steve, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnuspr1m3/pseuds/magnuspr1m3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the line for him came much differently than he originally expected. Instead of being decommissioned, he was free. HYDRA was gone. The Winter Soldier no longer had anyone to keep control of him. No commands. No missions. He was free of all of the tiresome little things to do as he pleased.</p>
<p>With freedom came more troubles, though. He had no solid memories of before. There were bits and pieces, little wisps of maybes from before, but nothing concrete. Yet, there was someone out there who claimed to know him. Someone that could piece together the maybes and fill the gaps in-betweens. Unfortunately for him, that person probably hated his guts. He certainly would, if he had been nearly killed. </p>
<p>But either way, he still did not feel like "Bucky". He knew that had to be him, but it was not really him. Nearly a hundred wipes over what had been 70 years had done a very effective job of making sure of that. He sighed, shuffling his feet some as he made his way slowly through the crowd at the museum with his head down to try and escape it unnoticed. He had done too much thinking for the day, and just needed to relax and get a bite to eat. And maybe a haircut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Displaced

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been stewing for a while. I finally got it mildly presentable. I hope you all like it!
> 
> Also, I do not know shit about medicine, so any medical stuff mentioned in here is probably inaccurate, forgive me.

_“’Cause I’m with ya… ‘Til the end of the line…”_

The end of line. He thought once that he knew what the end of the line would be. The end of the line for him was his last mission, and then probably death. He knew very well what they really meant when they said they planned to decommission him after he stopped the plot to destroy the helicarriers; they planned to kill him. They were going to kill the very weapon they created. The weapon that they made to be unstoppable. They planned to _kill_ him, but he still did the mission anyway. Because a part of him was tired of it all, and it was going to bring an end to it all one way or another. He was tired of needles and straps and electrocution. He did not want to be wiped anymore. It _hurt._ He figured that the end of the line would mean the end of that pain.

Granted, the end of the line for him came much differently than he originally expected. Instead of being decommissioned, he was free. HYDRA was gone. The Winter Soldier no longer had anyone to keep control of him. No commands. No missions. He was free of all of the tiresome little things to do as he pleased.

With freedom came more troubles, though. He had no solid memories of before. There were bits and pieces, little wisps of _maybes_ from before, but nothing concrete. Yet, there was someone out there who claimed to know him. Someone that could piece together the _maybes_ and fill the gaps in-betweens. Unfortunately for him, that person probably hated his guts. He certainly would, if he had been nearly killed.

Thankfully, the Winter Soldier was resourceful. He remembered the name of his target – Steven Grant Rogers – and knew how to use the internet to research him. And, boy, did he find out a lot about Steve Rogers, or Captain America as most people apparently referred to him. A superhero. Those were things from movies, or comic books. But one claimed to have been his best friend. The one who supposedly was the embodiment of patriotic perfection, which seemed kind of hilarious to him, all things considered. There was more information on the internet – all sorts of information claiming the other to have been a WWII figurehead that was trapped in ice for 70 years (yeah right, and he was the Queen of England). He opted to ignore most of it upon finding an article online about an exhibit at the Smithsonian Museums about Captain America. If he was lucky (and he generally was), he would find information on himself as well, or who the other claimed he was. 

He bit off just a bit more than he could chew with that.

They had video footage of them, of _him._ His hair was different, shorter, but that was him, in a video taken during the ‘40s, laughing alongside Steve. The other had been right, because there was no way they could have faked that video. He took in all of the information he could, like a starving man given food for the first time. Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, a sniper and Howling Commando. He had grown up with Steve, who once upon a time was a 5’4” asthmatic who always seemed to pick fights with the wrong guy. That seemed to connect better in his mind with the name “Steve” than Captain America.

But either way, he still did not feel like Bucky. He knew that had to be him, but it was not really _him_. Nearly a hundred wipes over what had been _70 years_ did a very effective job of making sure of that. He sighed, shuffling his feet some as he made his way slowly through the crowd at the museum with his head down to try and escape it unnoticed. He had done too much thinking for the day, and just needed to relax and get a bite to eat. And maybe a haircut.

.   .   .

He did wind up making his way to a barber. The man had given him a strange look when he entered and took off his cap, likely due to the dirty and unruly state of his hair. “I just need a trim.” He had said, almost awkwardly. He had been deprived of actual human interaction for years. It was odd and a bit more difficult than he expected to just ask for a haircut.

The old man had actually laughed at him, shaking his head. (The man was bald, why was he allowed to cut hair?) “Son, you need a lot more than a trim. Go over to the sink and I’ll wash ya up, okay? Free of charge. You need it.”

The man was named John, a common name. He apparently lived just above the barber shop, which he had started at 17 to help out his mom when his dad died. It was just him here now, his mom having passed “back when the dinosaurs were still walkin’ about these parts.” He just kept talking as he washed, cut, and then dried his hair, never once pausing for him to say anything. Not that he wanted to say anything, because he certainly could not swap stories with the man. He had no stories to share. 

He had nearly knocked the chair over when John had spun him around to see himself. It was _Bucky_ staring back at him, almost exactly the same as those photos and videos at the museum. “Ya okay there, son?” John asked quickly, talking to him in the mirror. “Look like ya saw a ghost.” He stated, which was not far from the truth.

“Uh, James. Call me James.” He said shakily, moving to stand from the chair with his eyes still locked on their reflection. It was not a lie, apparently. He forced on a smile, turning to John and hoping it did not look too awkward. “Thank you. Really. How much do I owe you?”

John snorted, waving him off and moving across the small barber shop. “Please. You look homeless, kid. I’m not takin’ your money. It was on the house.” John moved to the coat rack he had thrown his hat on, taking it off and handing it back to him with a face. “Now, if ya put this on, though, you’re gonna get a swift kick in the ass.” His face looked dead serious, so the cap was shoved into the back pocket of his jeans quickly.

“Ya got a place to stay, Jimmy?”

The question caught him off guard. Was this man really… _No._ He did not know the man. He likely just knew of a nearby homeless shelter. “I’m really resourceful. I don’t need a place to stay. I’ve had to sleep in worse.” It certainly was not a lie. He had been stranded in the Russian countryside in the middle of winter once (he did not remember much aside from the cold and being glad he could not get frostbite in his left hand).

John gave him this stern look, something he imagined a father would. Granted, he was not entirely sure. He had no memory of his own father. “Son, ya know that wasn’t what I asked.” He rolled his eyes, jerking his thumb behind him. “I’ve got an extra room upstairs. Ya can stay there, and in exchange, you’ll work down here in the shop. Sound fair?”

Oh no. There were a million reason why he should not stay there, all of them resulting in death because death was all he knew anymore. What if he just snapped one day and killed the old man? He did not think he would be able to live with himself. He could kill the man claiming to be his best friend, but this random old man who cut his hair and offered him a place to stay? No. He would not be able to live with the guilt for some reason. The thought of it alone made him sick to his stomach. He started to shake his head, to say no, that he could not put John in danger.

“Now, I wasn’t actually asking. You’re staying. I’m gonna close up shop for a bit, show you the room, and then you’re gonna tell me about yourself, James.”

He shook his head again, “Nothing to tell. Seriously, I’ll… I’ll only put you in danger. John, thank you for the offer, seriously, but I can’t.” _I’ve killed enough people. I won’t kill you, too. I won’t have your blood on my hands._ He needed to get moving and try to find more out about who he had been. He could not stagnate at some little barber shop in DC, and possibly be found by some… Unsavory ex-associates.

The man was paying him no mind, however. He moved slowly about the barber shop, flipping the sign to closed and tidying up some. He was sweeping up the hair from James’ haircut, humming to himself. James sighed, running a hand through his freshly cleaned hair. “Are you ignoring me? I’m serious. I am a dangerous person. I-I could _kill you_ and no one would ever know it was me. _You_ wouldn’t even know you were going to die! And I would not think twice about it! It would just be one more _terrible_ thing I would have to live with. Oh well!” He did not notice he was yelling until he stopped, arms thrown up in the air dramatically. John was giving him a look, arms crossed over his chest. James shrunk back some, arms falling by his side. He looked down at his gloved hands and huffed.

“Fine. Don’t believe me?” He asked, already taking off his gloves and then starting to shrug off his jacket.

John obviously thought he had given up the argument, body relaxing momentarily. “It won’t be that bad, drama queen. You can just put your coat on the rack, if ya-“ He stopped once James’ coat was gone, held in his right hand and his head hung low.

“My name is… Apparently it is James Buchanan Barnes. I was born back in 1918, and was supposed to have died during WWII.” He said shakily, not once looking up to see how John was taking all of this. “Instead, I got my memory wiped and my left arm replaced. I… I was an _assassin_.” He felt oddly relieved confessing this all. It made little sense; this man could quite easily call the cops on him (not that it would do him any good). “I’m… In control right now, but I don’t know if I’ll snap suddenly and kill you.”

The snort from the old man had him snapping his head back up to look at him. John rolled his eyes at him, “Ya really are a drama queen, Jimmy. Shut up and take your ass upstairs. Chicken’s for dinner, and you’re telling me about _you_ while I cook.”

James gave up on arguing with the old man and did as he was told.

.   .   .

John gave him a couple hundred dollars to get clothes after staying with him for a few days. “It’s an advance on your pay. Ya need something to wear that doesn’t smell like it was pulled out of a dumpster,” he had said as he ushered James out of the barber shop. “Get clothes, then come back and I’ll start trainin’ ya.”

So he did. James went to the nearest shopping mall and slipped into the first store he saw, an Old Navy. He figured out his size and then just grabbed a bunch of generic button downs that he could hide his arm in easily enough with gloves and some jeans. He snagged a few t-shirts and pairs of shorts as well, just in case. He checked out quickly, glaring at anyone who looked his way and probably scaring the life out of the poor girl who was his cashier. He made it out of that store quickly enough, though. From there, he went to grab a couple pairs of shoes so he had things other than combat boots to wear, and then he went and fetched some more underwear; necessities and all.

He made a quick change in a bathroom and threw away the old clothes before heading back to the shop. It had been bizarre, catching sight of himself in a window as he walked. He looked so _different_. He looked like the man in the pictures, the one named Bucky. He looked like _him_ and it was terrifying. It shook something down inside of him, jarring it loose. It dangled there, just at the tips of his fingertips. Something was there. And it was important.

He nearly missed his stop off of the metro, he got so lost in his thoughts.

He slipped into the shop, the old man sitting in the chair at the little reception desk. “That didn’t take long,” John muttered, snorting some as James’ eyes lingered on his reflection in one of the many mirrors. He did not look like the asset, the prized assassin. He looked… normal, if a bit tired. “Go on, go put your stuff upstairs. Then I’m gonna show you the ropes.” Bucky gave one last long glance at his reflection before doing as he was told.

It turned out he was great with a straight razor. “Smoothest cut I ever had,” One of John’s regulars had said, patting James on the back with a grin. “Didn’t shake a bit. Good job, son.” He had resisted the urge to roll his eyes at “son”, sweeping the floor before moving to sanitize the razor. Turned out that it helped to have a metal arm. It never shook, unlike his flesh one did. It was always steady. Always sure.

_If he flicked his wrist just so, he could have killed the man. It would have been swift, if a bit messy. Yes. Yes. That would have pleased his owner, his masters. Yes. He failed his mission. They left him. He needed to show that he was good, he was not broken. The Man did not break him. He was-_

James shook his head quickly, pressing his fingers against his temples and rubbing softly. No, he was not that person anymore. He was getting better. He was two and a half weeks from that, from the hell he had lived through for seventy years. He was not the monster Hydra had created. He refused to be. Yet, he could not deny the itch he felt beneath his skin when he gave someone a shave or it was his turn to chop up the meat for dinner. Fourth of July came and went and he locked himself away when the fireworks started to resist the urge to _run run run escape go back to hydra back to home runrunrunrun_. He was not that. He was not an asset. No. He was not the Soldier. He was James. He was normal.

But he was not. No matter how hard he tried to just go about a normal routine, he could not push away the urges, the training. He could not escape it. He could never escape them. They were in his head, buried deep and holding on tightly. He could not shake. He could not break free, and it was driving him insane.

He broke one night at dinner. They were having steak and baked potatoes (“A man’s meal!” John had declared.), a knife clenched tightly in his left hand as he stared down at his plate. It would be so easy to just end the man. No one would know. No one. He could make it look like an accident, which was his job before after all. He could do it. He could do it.

He did not know when he started crying, knife falling to the floor beside him as he pulled his knees to his chest, boots on the edge of his chair. His whole body shook with his gasping breaths, heart racing. No. He could not do that anymore. He was better. He was not a monster. He would not be. He never even realized he was rambling brokenly, going on and on about he could not do it, would not. He refused to be that monster that they created, the broken shell of a man they pulled him out of time and time again with the wiping. He was there. He was there, and real, and not a monster. No, he was not a monster.

John had sat next to him until he calmed, muttering just that over and over again. “You’re not a monster. You were used, against your will. You were a prisoner. You’re not a monster, Jimmy. You’re a good boy, a good man.”

He just nodded along silently, accepting the words and soaking them in. If someone else believed it, it had to be true. He was not a monster.

.   .   .

He had lived with John for just over three months when he found her. She had the biggest blue eyes, and such soft golden fur. He could not say no when he saw her. He had snatched up the little puppy without a second thought, getting the basic supplies for her from the pet shop and taking her straight home. She stayed nestled in the crook of his arms, looking around excitedly and licking him wherever she could reach skin. She was so excited, so happy. He could use a little happy.

John was in the back room when James made it back to the shop, which he counted as a good thing. He walked as quietly up the stairs as he could. He somehow made it into his room without alerting John, and got about setting up the puppy’s things. He set her on his bed, watching as she moved to sniff around the bed with her nose pressed into his comforter. He set up the training kennel and her food and water bowls on the floor, before snagging the collar with the little ID tag and putting it on her.

The cliché little heart tag read ‘Peggy.’

The dog lapped at his hands, fighting him some as he put the bright red collar on her. He managed to get it on without pinching her fur or skin in it, thankfully, before picking her back up in his arms and rubbing between her ears gently. She practically melted in his hold, tail thumping against his chest. Her little eyes looked up at him and there was just so much love from such a small creature he had barely known. She was so innocent and pure and sweet and he was tainted. He tainted and broken and he should not be allowed to have this tiny creature dependent upon him, loving him.

A knock on his door startled them both, Peggy giving a small bark and curling up some in his hold to try and make herself smaller. The door opened before he could say anything or hide the dog, and in came John. James just stood there, eyes wide and puppy curled up against his chest. John stared at them both for a moment, trying to keep his expression stern before bursting into a fit of laughter that almost toppled him over. The older man shook his head as both James and Peggy watched him confused.

“You’re like a damn little kid, tryin’ to hide a dog in your room.” John had actually teased, and James just gave him this awkward little smile as he continued to pet Peggy. She relaxed back into his arms, and in that moment, James knew a sort of peace he had yet to find in life. And he thanked the small dog for giving it to him.

Peggy became James’ shadow, in a way. The dog followed him everywhere, even slept in his bed (they tried the crate, but she just whined all night so he gave up on that very quickly). When he had a particularly bad nightmare, it was to the press of a cold, wet nose to his neck that he woke up. She would always nose him awake, whining at him gently and pawing at his cheek if that did not get him up. She would sleep pressed along his side, providing warmth and an acute sense of _not alone_ that he would not give up for anything in the world. She grounded him, staying by his side constantly and just looking up at him with that dopey face, those sweet blue eyes, and a lazy wag of her tail. She grew too quickly in his opinion, eventually becoming too big for him to carry around reasonably.

That does not mean that he stopped carrying her, of course.

.   .   .

The crash startled James in the back room, who hurriedly set the towel aside and moved out to the main room. Peggy was whining loudly, John nowhere in direct sight. “John?” He called, not seeing anyone by the seats or the sinks. Peggy peeked around the counter and yipped at him. That was telling enough for him. He hurried through the shop, gasping when he saw John collapsed against ground. “Shit. John?” He asked, leaning beside him and carefully moving to roll him over, panic spiking when he saw he was unconscious. “John! Hey, wake up! C’mon, John, y-you’re freaking me out. Get up!”

Peggy whined, skulking up beside him and licking at John’s cheek. What was he to do? He could call 911, but would they get there in time? What if John _died_? He could not handle being alone and kicked out of the place he had come to call home. He needed John just as much as the old man needed him, if not more. John was his anchor to this crazy world.

He pulled himself from his panicking long enough to snag the wireless phone for the shop, dialing 911.

_"911, what’s your emergency?”_

“I-I need an ambulance. My friend uh, he fell or something. I don’t know. He’s 76 years old, he fell, and he’s not getting up and I don’t know what to do.” James practically whined over the phone, much like the pup beside him.

“Stay calm, sir. Is he breathing? Do you know if he hit his head? Is there any blood or noticeable bruising?”

He did another quick once over of John, stammering into the phone, “H-he is breathing. I-I don’t see anything wrong with him other than a nasty bruise on his arm. I don’t know if he hit his head, I was in the other room when he fell.”

“Alright. I have paramedics on their way now. I’m gonna have you stay on the line with me in case anything changes, alright?” The operator was surprisingly calm through all of this, her voice a gentle stream compared to the raging hurricane of panic running through him. “Sir, are you still there?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m here. I’m still here.”

It was horrifying waiting for the paramedics. It felt like it took them an eternity to get there, and each second could have cost John his life. He did not wake up before they got there, which made it seem all the worse to him. They loaded him onto a stretcher quickly when they got there, rushing out without so much as asking if he wanted to ride with. They left him sitting there on the ground, frozen in place with Peggy whining loudly at his side. It took him several long moments to be able to gather himself enough to stand and take Peggy up to the apartment. As soon as he locked her up there and moved to leave he could hear her crying from his room. He felt bad for leaving her, but he doubted that they would allow dogs in the hospital.

He was eternally grateful for his slightly enhances strength, because with it came the endurance to run the whole way to the nearest hospital. He burst into the emergency room and immediately began demanding to know where John was, how he was doing, if he was even alive. He _needed_ to know almost as desperately as he needed to breathe. They kept insisting that he had to be related to see John. “Visiting hours are over unless you’re related to him,” One nurse had said. She raised an inquisitive brow and just asked, “Are you his son?”

James did not count it as lying because he did not really nod before she was ushering him back to John’s room. He slipped in and staggered to the man’s bedside, gloved hands hovering over his body as if it were some sacred, fragile thing. It looked it, honestly. John had always looked great for his age, but there, in that hospital bed, he looked dead. His skin was terribly pale and other bruises had blossomed on his skin in varying shades of blue, green, and purple. There were all sorts of tubes and wires hooked up to him, one hooked up to a respirator and that gave James a flash of _something_ from before, a distant memory of a hospital bed and a respirator and a cold Brooklyn winter.

Cancer, a doctor had said a few days later as James kept a too firm grip on John’s hand. Stage four. They could start treatment, make it easier for him, take away the pain, but his chances of survival were non-existent at his age. “There are a few experimental treatments you could even try, if you want.” The doctor had said, giving them a few pamphlets before leaving them be. James was already looking through them, not even acknowledging the number. He was sure there was a bounty on his head out there somewhere. If he needed to, he would turn himself in so John could live.

“Put those down.” The order came out soft, terribly soon. James slowly set the pamphlets aside, looking to the old man curiously. Did John just plan on going through chemo and radiation? He had heard terrible things about those, about how they wreaked havoc on the body. He voiced this to the man, who just shook his head. “I’m not going to fight this, Jimmy. I’m old. If it is my time to go, it’s my time to go.”

That had James on his feet in an instant, shouting about not giving up and going on and “ _you have to live I need you_ ” and it was familiar. Just like the respirator, it was familiar. He had said all of this before, had shouted and screamed and cried until he had finally made the other see reason. That he had to keep living. But not John, this did not work on him. The man simply remained firm, shaking his head slowly and repeating, “I’m not going to fight this. I’m sorry.” It hurt. It hurt, and James wanted him to say it was a joke. He wanted the doctor to come back in with a camera crew and tell him that it was all an elaborate prank, that is was all just a joke and that they could go back home.

They never did, though.

John and James returned home eventually, with a slow of medications to help with the pain. John had thankfully agreed to at least take those at a desperate look from James during one of their meetings with the doctors. Peggy was happy to see John, jumping up once before James snapped and she skulked away. He felt bad for it later, but he could not have John getting hurt. He needed the old man, just as much as the man now needed him.

He found a renewed sense of purpose in looking out for him, keeping him alive. He could do it. He would make sure John ate and took his medication, and Peggy would be the sweet girl she was and comfort them both whenever she seemed to think they needed it. He could make it work. He could.

.   .   .

The bell on the door rang loudly, and right on cue Peggy howled in the front of the shop. James smiled to himself from where he was in back doing the annual inventory count. “Peggy, hush!” John scolded out front, just loud enough for James to make out. He laughed at that, focusing back on his work as he started back over on counting the combs in the box before him.

Two years (almost three). He had lived with John for over two years, and while he was not much closer to discovering who he once was, he was happy. He was his own person. He had a life, albeit a technically illegal one, and people (or person and dog) that cared for him. He had a job even, although it was not much of one generally. He was happy with not knowing about before.

He finished counting while John was cutting the hair of whoever came in, rambling to the poor man while he did so. “-damn near three years since you’ve been here, and you come back after savin’ the world again. Your cut’s on me.” John insisted to the man.

James rolled his eyes, moving to pet Peggy who had sprawled out on the floor in the middle of the shop. He was always doing that; just giving free haircuts. It was a wonder he made any money at all. “You’re gonna wind up broke with all of your free haircuts, John.” He teased, standing from petting the lazy golden retriever. “Not to say it isn’t deserved.” He said quickly as he turned to see who John was giving a freebie to this time.

His eyes met with bright blues in the mirror and both men tensed up immediately. _No no no not him it can’t be him why is he here no no no run have to run run run RUN._ His veins were suddenly coursing with adrenaline at the sight of _Steve._ He needed to get away. He had to run. All his instincts were screaming to either kill the man or get far, far away from him. He took a few quick steps back and suddenly Steve was up, accidentally knocking poor John back.

“Bucky?”

Thankfully John spoke, because he could not. Not with Steve there. The frail old man hobbled over and placed a gentle but firm hand on James’ real arm, grounding him like he had to so many times before. Peggy whined on the floor, scrambling to sit now and watch. “Jimmy here doesn’t really remember much, so you’ll have to forgive him if you knew him. Or maybe he does remember you?” The man raised a grey brow at James. “Are ya friends with Captain America?”

He shook his head, eyes still completely focused on the blond. If Steve moved, he would run. He did not care how far, but he needed to be away from him. “No. Not that I remember, anyway. He-he says we were. Best friends. Back before the whole brainwashing thing, y’know?” James knew he had vented to John about what all he had been through enough for the man to put the pieces together on that one. “But, they were good at what they did. I don’t have any memory of before.”

Steve was still struggling with the fact that his best friend was here, and also did not bite the man’s head off for calling him “Jimmy”. “Buck, please, just let me explain some things to you. I have pictures and all sorts of stuff back at the base. Even have some of your old things. I can help you remember.” He was practically begging James, using the same tone from back at the helicarrier.

_“’Cause I’m with ya… ‘Til the end of the line...”_

“No.” James was firm when he responded, wanting to take another step back but not daring to move with John holding him (damn old man). “No, I don’t _want_ to remember. I’m happy. I’m happy, and I’m- I’m not a danger to anyone, and I don’t want to remember. I can’t. I can’t do that. I can’t remember. I-“ He was starting to panic, heart clenching in that familiar way and lungs just not seeming to fill with air like they should have. Steve was giving him that heartbroken look, like he killed his dog or something. It made the panic and guilt worse. He could not do it. No.

_You have to. Finish the mission. Finish the mission. He is right there, **FINISH THE MISSION!**_

“Easy, James. Deep breaths. C’mon now, son, it isn’t that bad. We’ve been over this,” John said softly, voice smooth and even as he does his best to calm James down. James focused on that, on the soft hand rubbing circles in his back instead of the sudden need of the Soldier’s to _killkillkillkillkill_. “What you did then does not affect who you are now. The past is the past. You’re a good boy, James. A good man. I’m proud of you, and I’m sure your friend here would be, too. Okay? I just need you to take some deep breaths and relax for me. Can you do that?” James sucked in a large gulp of air, forcing himself to nod as he body still shook slightly. He focused on breathing and not that soul-piercing blue stare.

Steve nearly ruined it by speaking, though. “… This happen a lot?” It was barely above a whisper, but it nearly ruined all of James’ progress in calming himself. He almost snapped, lashed out. He kept his left hand clenched tightly at his side, flesh and blood one tugging at the hair on the back of his neck some to distract himself.

“Kid’s got a lot of problems with who he was. Not when you knew him, but after.” The old barber explained, one hand moving now the rub lightly at James’ back after swatting at the hand in his hair. “He’s good, though. Had a few bumps when he first moved in, but he has not hurt a fly. In fact, he saved my life, and little Miss Peggy over there.”

“Peggy?” There was recognition in the voice, like Steve knew the name. He could have, of course. It was not an extremely uncommon name back in the 40s. “Her name’s Peggy?” James actually nodded to that, earning a gentle pat on his shoulder from John. Steve had this odd look in his eyes as he stared from the dog to James. “We had a friend named Peggy. During the war. Peggy Carter.”

"Maybe ya do remember some,” John suggested, looking down at the dog. “Subconsciously, of course.” Peggy woofed softly up at them, tail thumping against the reception desk loudly.

John sighed when James still did not make a verbal response, shoving him lightly towards the stairs (and also Steve). “Go wash up, ya drama queen. I’m gonna finish up down here, then the _three_ of us are having dinner.” He spoke with that no nonsense tone James was more than used to by now, gearing the other into action.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly stay,” Steve said as James passed, but the brunette noted the reluctance to his tone. He did. They all knew he wanted to stay. “I have to get back to the base, and the flight isn’t short. We have new recruits, and some of them are-“

“Shut your yap, Steve. You can call them and let them know you’ll be late. You’re staying for dinner, but first I’m gonna finish trimming your hair.”

And like that, John had them all in motion, and not about to flee or kill the other. It was not great, but it was certainly a start.

James was surprised by how well dinner went. They finally used that third chair at the little wooden table in the kitchen, although Peggy seemed mildly upset she could not hop up in it to try and beg. Until Steve slipped her a piece of his steak. He was surprisingly easy to get along with after both of them relaxed enough to just _talk_. They bounced conversation off of each other like it was second nature, Steve having a quip for everything he said and him replying to anything from the blond with either a snarky comment or teasing remark.

At one point in their meal, James accidentally cut through his plate (“That’s the eighth plate this month, dammit!”). He blushed a bit, apologizing profusely to John who just sighed and grumbled under his breath as James cleaned up his mess and try to salvage some of his meal. “Not used to the strength of your other arm?” Steve had asked, obviously trying to keep all of his likely endless other questions at bay.

“Not used to not using the strength of it.” He countered, rolling the shoulder. “I’m right-handed, thankfully. Otherwise, I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

“You’re left-handed.” The other did not even seem to notice he said that until it was too late. He looked a bit embarrassed, shrugging as James raised a brow at him. “Or, you were. You only ever shot right-handed sometimes. I imagine losing your arm, though… That’d force you to relearn some things.”

James stared down at the metallic hand of his left arm, clenching it some and trying to imagine writing and whatnot with it. Would his hand writing look better? It was rather sloppy. John teased him a lot about it, saying it looked like a kindergartener was writing down appointments in the calendar. He already did quite a few things left-handed; shaving, eating, cutting hair… He had always just assumed it was because his left-handed did not have that natural quiver to it like his right hand did. “Huh.” He looked up to Steve, who was just watching him now. “Well then. The more you know, I guess.” He shrugged, not oblivious to the way Steve actually smiled a bit at him.

After that night, Steve made an effort to come over for dinner at least once a week, if not every night (apparently Stark did not care if Steve used one of the quinjets to fly to DC all of the time – he even offered to relocate the Avengers if it made it easier on Steve). He even brought others over from time to time, although it was generally Sam (James apologized for throwing him off the helicarrier and Sam had just said, “Man, so long as you keep that freaky arm away from me, we’re straight.”). They fell into an easy routine, John cooking dinner while Steve and James (plus Sam, if he came) took Peggy for a quick walk. Then they would all sit down and eat, chatting easily amongst themselves about what all was going on. He had to admit, Steve certainly had some interesting stories from being around the Avengers as much as he was. James almost hated to admit it, but he could listen to Steve prattle on about nonsense for hours. It was just easy for him to be around Steve, if the other was not trying to force who he had been down his throat. Which he thankfully gave up on after James freaked out and punched him through a wall (which he fixed himself because there was no way he could explain a Captain America sized hole in the wall to a professional).

Things were going great for James. And then Steve had to go and fuck it up.

_“Come be an Avenger with me, Buck.”_ One little request that fucked all of it up. How could Steve ask him that? He knew very well that John was sick, could die at any moment because the old man was just too stubborn to go through chemo. He could not leave him. He was about to force John into a hospital as it was with how much his condition had been declining recently. And Steve had the nerve to ask James to leave him, to go play superhero. No. He was needed there. He had to run the shop and keep John alive. Plus, what was he supposed to do with Peggy if he did decide to be an Avenger? He was not just going to ignore her to save the world. She was his baby girl. She would probably be depressed if he put her through that.

He was a bit bent out of shape about the whole thing for days. Steve stayed away for a bit, thankfully, because he probably would have punched him again if he had asked. And of course John noticed something was wrong. The old man was too perceptive for his own good. He did not ask about what happened, though, just did little things to comfort him. Having your favorite meal two days in a row for dinner and not having to feed the dog were just John’s way of saying, “It’s alright.”

John was not quiet forever, though. Eventually he came to James room while the other was in the shower and started packing. The brunette came back, trying to towel dry his hair neatly and had stopped dead in his tracks. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No. You’re moving out. Go be an Avenger. Have fun. Be young. You deserve it.” John had insisted, moving unsteadily about the room as he packed. He had a box of things set off to the side that he pointed to, “Found those. They were mine and my brother’s when we were little. Captain America comics. You were in some.” He said absently.

James snorted, immediately moving to unpack. John swatted at his hands, shooing him from the suitcase. “John, seriously, I’m not going. I’m needed here. You can barely make it up and down the stairs by yourself! You’re _sick_. You can’t bribe me with your damn comic books _._ ” He grumbled, although it was startling to think that perhaps John had known about him the whole time, had known about his past. But he never mentioned it, never probed or pushed like Steve did, and John had been around him for much, much longer. He had always been looking out for him, whether James realized it or not.

John rounded on him quickly, a fire in those usually caring eyes James had never seen before. “Ya think I don’t know that? I’m dying, son, and ya need to understand that. Ya need to move on, make a life of your own. I’m not gonna be here forever, and I want to see you do great things while I still can.” The old man stopped himself briefly, taking a long, deep breath before continuing in a softer tone. “Look me dead in the eye and tell me you don’t want to do this.”

James snorted, doing just that. “I don’t want to do this. Now move, I need to unpack.” He grumbled, stepping around John again to dump his bag out. He was not going. End of story.

“You’re just pushing him away.” The soft tone caught James off-guard, head snapping up to look over at John. “You’re afraid of him, of what he means to you- and don’t you dare say meant. I might smack you if you do, boy.” The older man rambled, leveling him with a look as he pushed off of the wall he was leaning on. John took shaky, awkward steps across the room and stopped before him, James instinctively reaching out to steady him. “Tell me, if it weren’t for me and Peggy, would you go after him?”

James did not even hesitate, and his answer surprised him. “Of course. To the ends of the Earth.”

“Then go.”

.   .   .

He received a phone call a little while after they got back to base. It was a his first time out with the Avengers, and it went pretty well, all things considered. A nurse handed him the phone while he was getting the bullet wound in his side stitched up. It was not the best idea in retrospect. He had barely heard the news from the person before he was crushing the phone and going on a blind rampage. He blacked out, not aware of the damage he did to the base (and himself). He came to with Steve holding him to the ground, Vision and Wanda ready to intervene if necessary.

“He’s _dead_ ,” He whined pitifully, trying to curl in on himself at the sharp wave of sadness and regret that rushed through him. “ _He’s dead.”_ Steve got off of him at that, putting two and two together as James started to all out sob. The super soldier shooed away Wanda and Vision as he wrapped his arms around James and pulled him up into a seated position and held him tightly, like he could keep him from falling apart.

“Bucky, you’re bleeding. That wound in your side needs to be stitched up before you make it worse, okay?” He said softly. He moved him gently, making James stand and practically dragging him along. His friend was catatonic.

They passed by Sam, who was helping clean up some. “Can you go get Peggy?” He asked, knowing Bucky was too gone in grief to even register what was going on. Steve hoped that the dog would help pull him from it.

“Yeah. He gonna be okay?” Sam seemed genuinely concerned for the other. He had grown relatively close with Bucky, Natasha often jokingly referring to him, Steve, and Sam as the three musketeers. Steve had actually been worried for a bit that Sam and Bucky would never get along after the whole DC incident, but was more than relieved whenever the two actually did click together pretty well. He did not want his two best friends to hate each other. “That was some meltdown. Think Fury just about had him shot with a tranquilizer, and while that would have been hilarious, I kinda wanna know what has him so upset.”

“John passed away.” Steve said delicately, watching Bucky closely to see if he would lose it again. The other did not even appear to have heard him, which Steve would count as a small blessing for now.

“Shit, man. Yeah, I’ll hurry and go get Peggy. Think he’ll kill me if I fly with his dog?” Sam was obviously joking about the last part, but that was enough to briefly snap Bucky from his grief, eyes locking onto Sam with a menacing glare.

“Do that, and I’ll break your spine instead of one of your little wings so you’ll never fly again.”

Sam gulped at that threat, nodding. “Noted. I’ll be right back. Have fun in medical.” He gave them both a mock salute, hurrying away to go fetch the dog from the barber shop.

Steve managed to get Bucky back to medical after that, passing him off to a wary doctor who did his best to stitch the wound up quickly. Once Bucky was bandaged and cleared to leave, the other just continued to sit there. He stared down at his floor, at his hands and then his combat boot clad feet. Steve hated seeing him like that, looking so helpless. This was not the Bucky he knew. This broken, struggling shell of a man was not his best friend, and he hated to see this way. He hated this for Bucky, or James as the other insisted everyone called him.

Which was not right. Bucky hated his first name, thought it was too stuffy. He hated being called Jimmy even more so, but never stopped John from doing it all of the times Steve was there. He was different, even if he looked exactly the same (metal arm excluded, of course). He was quiet and defensive, closed off even. He was always looking over his shoulder for something or someone, ready to run at a moment’s notice.

What Steve did not realize was the person that Bucky, or James really, was always on the lookout for was himself, the Soldier. The Soldier, who upon John’s death, became nearly impossible to hold back. The first few days leading up to the funeral he was fine, if a bit shaken up. He got Peggy, and wound up flying down to DC to settle the matter of John’s will (The man left him everything, _everything_ , and all he had ever done was make sure he did not die that one time and break a lot of his plates and bring a dog into his home and he did not deserve it no). Then there was the funeral, a small affair only attended by the Avengers and a group of John’s regulars.

After the funeral, he snapped.

He did not remember it. Just remembered coming to at the reception, trapped in a magic vice grip over Steve, who had a swollen eye and a split lip. Had he done that? If the frightened looks everyone gave him and the utter chaos of the room was anything to go by, yes. Yes, he had ruined it. He was a monster. He was a monster, and he deserved to die. He wanted to die, because he could not stop it. He had no control over himself, like a rabid beast.

And just like a rabid beast, he needed to be put down.

Yet, no matter how many times he relapsed into the Soldier, Steve refused. No matter how much pleading he did to everyone to just _end it_ , they would not because Steve thought he could save him. And was that not the cause of all of his problems to begin with. He grew bitter as time passed and more of his control slipped from his fingertips. Steve had no right to keep him here, not like this. Not in some sort of twisted shell of their friendship from seventy years ago. Steve’s eternal, overflowing amounts of hope would be the literal end of him. If someone did not kill him, he would just do it himself eventually. This was not a life James wanted to live. No one should have had to live like that, afraid of their own reflection, that it might lean forward and whisper about all of the dark things they had done. This was not life, this was torment, and James did not know how much he could take.

.   .   .

It was after a pretty brutal relapse into the Winter Soldier that Wanda and Vision approached James. He was in his room, hair all a mess and eyes haunted as he just stared at his hands. He thought he was passed all of that, that he could go about life without lapsing back into _that_ anymore. He was wrong. He had killed two people, young agents he had not known well but had never had anything against; had snapped both of their necks without a second thought and continued to attack the others in the base to try and get to Steve. His failed mission.

He hated himself for it, for putting Steve through something like that again. His friend (although James always wondered if that term was really good enough for them) – if Steve still considered them to be friends after that stunt – was currently in medical, having taken quite a beating from James. And he never hit back. The few times he had lapsed back into the tortured creature that lurked just below the surface of his mind since John’s death had ended the same way. James feeling like the worst human in the world, and Steve with the shit beat out of him. He could not keep doing this to him.

He had to leave.

“That will not be necessary, James.” Wanda snapped him from his brooding, his eyes shifted to look up at where she stood in his room with Vision. Peggy just sat before them, looking up and wagging her tail like she expected them to pet her at any moment. “Vision and I have discussed some things, and decided to come and offer you our services.”

James snorted, shaking his head. “Ain’t even safe in my own head,” He grumbled, running his right hand through his hair. “I’m not into threesomes, if you’ve come to ask about that. I’ve got this issue with sharing, and I’m sure he does to.” He said the last part with an accusing point at Vision. The dude seemed so cool and collected, but James knew better. He could see it in his eyes whenever Wanda so much as spoke to the others. He was definitely the type who did not like to share, but that was a given seeing as he had spent years as Tony Stark’s AI.

“We have come to offer you a chance to regain your memories, and perhaps some control over who you had been.” Vision always was one to just cut to the chase (unless Stark was around. Those two fed off of each other’s snarky comments.). “Not all of them, of course. Steve had mentioned before that you do not wish to remember the crimes you committed under HYDRA’s control.”

“We just want to help you remember who you were,” Wanda added on. “And possibly even put a tighter lock on your memories as the Winter Soldier.” It seemed too good to be true. Only remember before he was the Winter Soldier, and now? James could not believe it. “Oh, do not worry. We actually can do it. I’m very skilled at this sort of thing.” Wanda said with a little smirk. “You will be in good hands.”

After seeing Steve today, all battered… James had to take a chance. For him. It was this or leave, and James hated to admit it, but he was too emotionally invested now to go anywhere. John had seen it, even back then. He could not leave. He loved Steve. He looked down at his arm, sighing a bit. “When do we start?”

.   .   .

“Seriously, guys, I’m fine.” Steve muttered as the medics continued to fuss over him. “It’s not the first time I’ve broken a rib, and it won’t be the last. It’ll heal in a few days. Now, please, can I go?” His chest hurt, and pain killers were not going to do anything for him, so he really wanted to go sleep. He would heal faster then.

But god, he knew as soon as he shut his eyes, he would see that vacant stare again. And honestly, he had 70 years of sleep, so maybe he could just stay awake for a bit. Yeah. He liked that idea a lot better. He stood up, shooing away one of the younger medics who immediately asked him to sit back down. He opened his mouth to speak, but someone beat him to it.

“Scram, kid. He isn’t gonna fall apart just from a li’l old broken rib. He had worse back when he was still a 90 pound twig.” God, and if the way he spoke with that strong Brooklyn accent initially had not made Steve’s heart leap, then the last bit certainly had. He turned around slowly, almost worried that if he did it would all be just an illusion.

There he stood; Bucky, his best friend. But, there was a difference between the one that stood before him and the one had he come to know. And Steve could blame it all on that little half smile, the one that could almost be counted at a smirk that he always gave Steve back in the day when he was worried about him; back after every fight, when Steve had the shit nearly beat out of him and Bucky had to come to his rescue. “Bucky?” He asked, and if his voice was just a bit hopeful, who could blame him.

The other rolled his eyes some, moving give his back a rough pat. The medics started to protest, but he just shooed them away. “In the flesh, punk. Sorry about earlier. Had a rough spot. But, doubt we’ll have to worry about more of those.”

“You’re… What?” Steve blinked, utterly confused by all of this. His friend… Remembered? What?

Bucky just laughed, moving to tug Steve out of the room with an arm thrown around his shoulders (Steve had to lean down a bit). “You can thank Wanda and Vision. It was their doing. Fixed the parts of my brain that being electrocuted so many times had fucked up. And without me having to remember… Well, everything _he_ did.” Bucky tugged him down the halls, bypassing everyone and only stopping once they reached Steve’s room. His friend pushed the door open for him, and out came Peggy.

Steve laughed as the dog jumped at him, catching her easily. “Hey, Peg.” He greeted, not asking yet why the dog was in his room. “How ya doin’, girl?” He held the (fully grown) golden retriever as he moved into his room.

What he found stunned him.

“Is that…” Steve approached the photo on the wall slowly, the only thing different about his room, worried that if he touched it, it might suddenly vanish. He set Peggy down, much to the dog’s dismay, and took the frame from the wall. The picture was impossibly old, one taken ages ago of him and his ma. He had been maybe seven years old at the time, back before his mom had gotten sick. She was holding him close, both grinning so brightly.

“I remembered that picture. Wanda helped me make it real again.” Bucky said, tone soft. “To say thanks. For putting up with me. Because you didn’t have to. You could have just listened to Sam and killed me back on that helicarrier.”

Steve, with tears in his eyes he was most definitely ignoring, shook his head at Bucky. “Never. You’re my best friend, Buck. I… I woke up here, thinking I would always be alone in this strange time. Sure, Peggy is still alive, but she’s not the same. She lived her life. There was no one who could understand what it is like to have missed so much.”

“Except me.” Bucky finished, smiling just a bit.

Steve could not stop the grin that spread his place as he put the picture back on the wall. He turned around, eyes soft as his gaze fell on Bucky. “Except you.”

And when the words fell from his mouth, he was forced to come to terms with something he had been fighting ever since he was reunited with Bucky. He loved his best friend. It had originally taken seeing him fall to his “death” for Steve to realize it, and back then, loving another man got you killed. When he had run into Bucky again, the man was not his friend; he had been a mere shell of the Bucky he knew. But Steve had held out hope that he could get Bucky back. He had somehow found him again, and he had almost seemed normal after a while. Steve could pretend that it was really and truly his best friend, and things were just like they had been.

Yet, he was not the same. The Bucky he had met in the barbershop was much more timid, something his Bucky had never been. And the other guy – the Winter Soldier – still lurked just beneath the surface, lashing out at him on occasion. He had given up a while ago on ever getting Bucky back. His Bucky was dead.

Now, standing before him with that stupid little smirk, was his best friend he had stopped believing in. God, how he wanted to just hold on to him and never let go. It was too good to be true. He feared he would wake up any moment now in the medbay. That would be a real punch in the gut.

Bucky finally spoke, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “Y’know, I’d say I’m sad we never really got to see the end of the war, but I’m kinda glad we ended up here.” He said, finally moving in to Steve’s room with Peggy moving to walk beside her owner happily. Bucky looked around, as if he had not seen all of it more than a dozen times before. Steve watched him curiously, wondering just what the hell Bucky was up to. There was a gleam in his eyes Steve just did not trust, not after all the times he had been pranked when they were little.

He stopped, standing maybe four inches before Steve, practically in Steve’s personal space. “If we both hadn’t wound up in this time, I’d probably never be able to do this.” Bucky said, voice suddenly a lot quieter before he was grabbing Steve’s face in his hands and pulling him into a kiss.

To say Steve was shocked was an understatement. The kiss was not gentle, a bit rough in fact. There was an underlying wave of _desperation/fear/need_ that really threw him for a loop. He was so shocked that he did not even kiss back. Bucky pulled back after a moment, looking thoroughly embarrassed and stepping back. He looked ready to run. “Uh, sorry. I thought-“

“That’s not a very good first kiss. Here,” Steve moved to take charge of the kiss this time, one hand moving around to the small of Bucky’s back and the other caressing his cheek as he leaned down some to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “I’m no dame you can just kiss and get into bed, Buck.” He muttered upon pulling back. He placed another gentle kiss on Bucky’s lips, just the light peck leaving him feeling intoxicated and that feeling being magnified by Bucky trying to follow his lips as they left. “We aren’t gonna do this if it’s just a game to you.” _Please, don’t let this just be game, Buck._

Bucky scowled at the accusation, “Hey now, that’s hardly fair. How could you assume I’d treat you like that? You’re my best friend, Steve. My only friend, really. Hell, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. Y’think I would just give that up for sex? Really?” He grumbled, almost pouting but Steve would never tell him that. Bucky would kill him. “Tell me, Steve, what was it that I said to you years ago? Back before I enlisted and you became Captain America? Right after your mom died?”

Realization seemed to dawn on Steve then, thinking back to that moment outside of his old apartment. Bucky had not possibly meant… Steve had not even considered that Bucky had feelings for him then, aside from platonic ones. “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.” Steve repeated the line, a little smile tugging at his lips now.

"Damn right, punk.” Bucky smiled back at Steve now, giving Steve one last kiss. “I realize I probably could have been a bit more straightforward about it. But, I figured I had been rejected, so I just kinda… Threw myself into dating women. Not like I hadn’t already, but you’ve gotta admit, I was definitely a lot worse.” He smirked mischievously at that, remembering his many conquests before going off to war. And there were many of them. And he had enjoyed every single one of them, but none of them could have filled the then 90 pound asthmatic sized hole in his chest.

Steve laughed at that, “Oh, you were terrible.” He teased his friend, shoving Bucky’s shoulder gently. “And I was stupid. It’s fine. We made it together in the end, didn’t we?”

“Depends on what you mean by together, kid.” There was a small smirk on his friend’s face as he looked him over quickly. “ _Are_ we together now?” He asked, and Steve thought it had to have been the stupidest question he ever heard.

“Of course.”

.   .   .

There were many things Bucky came to notice over time after living with the Avengers as himself; things he had seen as James but not really understood. Like Steve’s swear jar, a thing that Tony, Sam, Clint, and Rhodey often contributed to. As James, he had merely found it amusing and had often teased Steve for being such a prude. But upon regaining his memories, he found it absolutely hilarious. He approached Steve after dinner one evening, when Sam had been forced to put three dollars in the jar.

“What kinda shit are you pulling here, punk?” He asked with a smirk, nodding to the jar. “You swear more than anyone I know. The only time you wouldn’t was at church or around your ma. This doesn’t make sense. Who do you think you’re foolin’?” He actually laughed, snatching the jar from Steve before the other could react and shaking up the contents.

Steve rolled his eyes, not moving to reclaim the jar as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “I made a remark about Tony swearing on a mission a little while back, and they refused to let me live it down. So, I figured I might as well make some money off of the assumption that went with it.” The captain actually smirked at that, leaning in close to Bucky as he snatched the jar back and gave him a quick kiss to distract him. “Besides, Tony can more than afford it.”

That had the other soldier laughing loudly, “Oh, I didn’t say Stark couldn’t. Just calling you out for being a hypocrite.” He popped the ‘p’ sound, still smirking at the blond. “Who’d have known good ole Captain America was not so good and virtuous after all.”

“The same one who took it,” Steve countered, actually getting a slight blush from Bucky who rolled his eyes.

“Oh, like you didn’t like it. You wouldn’t shut up. Who’da known you’d be a noisy one?” It was Steve’s turn to flush then, shoving Bucky away as he stepped closer, getting in Steve’s personal space. “Oh, you gonna be shy now? You’re the one who brought it up, pal. Don’t chicken out now.” And he flashed that smirk at Steve and the blonde suddenly found himself chasing the other soldier back to his room, the brunet laughing brightly. Steve would have never imagined his life turning out like this after waking up from the ice. But god, was he glad it did. As was Bucky. He had finally found his place.


End file.
